A Public Education
by AmiaBallade
Summary: Navigating the social minefield of high school is tough, well, if you care about such things. Sherlock personally thinks all that high school drama stuff is a waste of brain function; although he does find it amusing as one might Jerry Springer. This story travels along the lines of Veronica Mars, as Sherlock begrudgingly helps out his new peers when mysteries arise. Watson


**Disclaimer: **This is a work of fanfiction using the characters from the world of Sherlock and Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not claim any ownership of these characters. Like many before me I am in awe of Sir Arthur's work and inspired by his world and lets face it a fan of a certain tall dark and handsome actor who has brought this character to life. The story I tell here is my own invention, is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line. I hope you enjoy it.

Sherlock Holmes loathed high school. Well, he supposed Eton College couldn't really be called a 'high school'. There were a great number of similarities of course, but by all accounts the students had a better grasp of the English language, and better dress sense. There were also the high standards of academia, the decorated staff and alumni and the numerous extra curricula activities on offer. None of this made a difference to Sherlock, the place was riddled with the idiotic and egotistical; how utterly predictable and tedious. He had recently concluded an experiment that investigated the correlation between the two. The results were interesting although hardly unexpected. Comfortably reclined on the bench outside the Heads office, Sherlock settled down to think. Lost in the electric storm of his firing synapses, he didn't notice the group of boys pass; whispering hate filled words and flashing angry looks as they made their way down the hall. Sherlock had grown quite good at ignoring such things, so good in fact, that he failed to notice one of their number drop away as they rounded the corner.

Mycroft stood for a moment to watch his brother; clearly he hadn't noticed his presence yet. Although he would never admit it, Mycroft held a certain admiration for Sherlock and his exploits. Pranks is perhaps a very loose way of describing them, Mycroft was sure there was no true ill intention behind them although they often caused quite extensive damage. Not to mention making his life difficult. At this moment he was truly angry with his troublesome brother, he spent most of his life trying to distance himself, but in the eyes of their peers he was often guilty by association. Never mind that Mycroft was never spared from one of Sherlock's daft pranks. No, never mind that he was played along with the rest of them. Sherlock needed to be taught a lesson, and with that thought in mind, Mycroft moved to stand beside his brother; pretending to read flyers on the notice board.

Without opening his eyes Sherlock asked "Thinking of joining the Shakespeare Society Mycroft? I always thought you said I was the one with the dramatic flare?"

"You've certainly done it this time Sherlock. Oh dear what will Father say?" queried Mycroft, not even trying to hide his nasty grin.

"Oh, you know. Probably the usual sort of thing; _I'm a disgrace to the Holmes name, he should disown me, insolent beyond belief, strip me of my privileges_… that sort of thing." replied Sherlock with a nonchalant air, now examining his fingernails.

"I would be a bit more worried if I were you brother. From what I hear, your little stunts are wearing thin. Things might not blow over so easily this time." Mycroft spoke quietly as a teacher past, frowning at the pair.

"What you mean to say, is that a charitable donation from the Holmes Family Trust might not do the trick this time." A voice called out to Sherlock from the office. He stood before grinning at his older brother and adding "But just think Mycroft, how will they ever raise enough money for that new indoor rowing Centre?" Sherlock's mocking concern was perfectly played and he left his older brother chuckling and shaking his head.

"Dramatic flare indeed" said Mycroft quietly, amused at his brother despite himself.

Headmaster Charles Ernshaw was the type of self-important man that insisted everyone call him Doctor Ernshaw; despite it being a pHD in education. He and Sherlock had never truly seen eye to eye. A series of unfortunate incidences in first year meant there was very little trust between them; and in Sherlock's case very little respect. Now sitting across from him Sherlock was making a study of his old adversary. Something seemed different about him. There was a thin sheen of sweat on Ernshaw's forehead, a clear sign of stress. From the position of the telephone; three inches from its usual spot, as though pushed aside with feeling, Sherlock deduced that a phone call made recently elevated his heart rate causing a rise in temperature and resulting in a sweaty outburst on the brow. If he had to guess the topic of said phone call, Sherlock would say he was the protagonist. This was somewhat confirmed by Ernshaw's apparent interest in his paperwork and avoidance of eye contact.

Sherlock decided to break the expanding silence,

"Did you get in contact with Father then? Or was it his secretary, I think he has a new one."

Ernshaw had no interest in polite conversation, in fact Sherlock's comment only served to strengthen his resolve. The boy was clearly not concerned about his future at Eton, believing no doubt that Father's money would sort everything out; well not this time.

"Do you know why you are here Mr. Holmes?" Ernshaw leaned forward as he spoke, trying to appear menacing; a rather cute attempt Sherlock thought.

"Well_ Mr. _Ernshaw I suppose this has something to do with that embarrassing mess the boys made of their linens last night. Although I hardly see how a few boys wetting the bed can be linked to me, it doesn't surprise me that I am here of course. Our chats always seem to begin with you accusing me of something." Sherlock sat comfortably in his chair.

"And often times my accusations are sound!" Ernshaw's words came out in a rush, as though they had been fighting against the back of his teeth to be heard. "Mr. Holmes, what you call a few boys was in fact, the entirety of our sporting team, from the top athletes to the ball boys! A number of other students and a few staff! This is no anomaly! This is no coincidence!" Each point emphasized with an exclamation mark.

"Oh my. Which staff members?" Sherlock leaned in to ask conspiratorially.

Unimpressed, Ernshaw ignored Sherlock's question and decided to play his trump card, taking a breath before he began. "Mr Holmes, you have been brought to this office for a disciplinary meeting. I have recently finished a phone call with your father, in which I have informed him that you are no longer welcome at Eton College."

Sherlock rather doubted he was ever welcome at Eton.

Ernshaw continued, "while you have been waiting outside my office I have had your rooms searched and we have found more than enough evidence of your wrong doing. Your secret 'lab' has also been discovered and destroyed." Ernshaw's calm manner was a little unnerving. Sherlock had often seen him yell, spit and even try reasoning; but speaking calmly was a new approach.

"That is an abuse of civil liberties." Sherlock spoke briefly, thinking hard about the next move in this game of chess.

"Sherlock, I am sure I don't have to tell you that making drugs on school property is illegal. By all accounts you should be taken into police custody. However your father and I have worked out a different arrangement."

"No doubt monetary. Drugs! I think you will find, if you examine my equipment that there are no traces of illicit substances anywhere. They were placebos, sugar tablets. I hardly see how that is illegal." with that swift stroke, Sherlock envisioned taking down Ernshaw's queen.

"This isn't some crime show Mr. Holmes. We aren't running forensics. That would mean police and whether the pills were illegal or not you _were_ making them on school grounds and selling them to students! And you cannot deny that they have had a detrimental affect."

"Yes well, the side affects were a somewhat surprising and happy bonus. But I never sold a single pill to anyone at Eton" Sherlock could almost see the end of the game, in his minds eye the final move that will fell the Headmasters King and win him the game, is set up perfectly.

"We have heard about your 'friend' in the village, I suppose he handled the transactions and gave the money to you. This back and forth is impotent; the decision has been made. Sherlock Holmes, taking into account your past misdemeanors and your lack of improvement despite our best efforts… You have been expelled from Eton College. I would ask you to go and pack, your father will be here to pick you up in an hour." Ernshaw looked almost relieved after finishing his speech, is red face returning to its usual shade of pink.

Sherlock stared for a moment, his featured carefully arranged to give nothing away. This was not the outcome he expected. The chest game had been over turned, its pieces discarded on the floor. Yes it was a distant possibility, but he rather thought Ernshaw didn't have the backbone. Everything now made sense of course, with the sweaty brow and the calm tone. But expelled? Sherlock silently resolved to never be blind sighted in such a way again, he rose to leave pausing when Ernshaw cleared his throat.

"Chmm. I ah.. suggest you head straight to your room… there are a number of students who aren't happy with you and I don't want any violence in my halls." Ernshaw seemed genuinely worried.

"I would have thought you knew me well enough by now Mr. Ernshaw. I am not entirely helpless in that regard." returned Sherlock with his usual air of knowing nonchalance.

"Yes well, off you go and Sherlock, try and consider your future. Intelligence isn't everything."

Sherlock just grinned before leaving the Headmasters office. For the last time he realized. He walked without haste to his room, the halls oddly deserted and not a single soul to call him nasty names let alone inflict violence. Sherlock was suspicious as he neared his bedroom door; it was slightly ajar and although there was no sound coming from inside, he prepared himself for the onslaught of an angry mob. Slowly he opened the heavy wooden door, the room was empty, although a group of students had clearly paid a visit not too long ago. Sherlock moved forward to examine the mess on the floor. Reflecting aloud "Funny, I don't remember creating a mountain of clothes and peeing all over it." The smell assaulted his nose as he edged around the mess, by his calculations there was at least two liters of urine covering everything, and once you had finished the necessary maths, that works out to ten boy, give or take. 'Only ten? Pathetic!" The fools were idiots indeed if they thought a bit of urine on his clothes would hurt Sherlock's feelings. Clothes could be replaced, first edition books and personal scientific journals could not. Luckily these, along with Sherlock's violin were left untouched, or perhaps unsoiled is the appropriate term in this case. He began to pack. The clothes could stay where they were, he had more at home anyway.

"That's a nasty mess there, Sherlock." said Paddy from the doorway, a consolatory expression on his face.

"Yes well, I guess we know who won the pissing contest." Sherlock grinned at his father's driver.

"So.. ya fathers in a right state. What did you do this time?" asked Paddy as he loaded his arms with Sherlock's things.

"I was simply conducting an experiment to see how stupid the students within these hallowed halls are." Sherlock replied, gathering the last of his possessions.

"By the looks of that mess on the floor you needn't have wasted your time.."

"There might have been a slip of the hand when it came to adding the bonding agent. I knew it was a diuretic when used in excess, but accidents do happen." Sherlock grinned as Paddy flashed him a knowing look. The pair made their way to the entrance of the school, pausing briefly at the wide oak double doors, Sherlock looked back.

"Is there no one you want to say goodbye to?" asked Paddy.

"There isn't a single person in this place whose opinion or well wishes I value, so no. Although perhaps.." Sherlock trailed off as he knocked on the Headmasters door and opened it, interrupting Ernshaw midsentence as he spoke to the School Librarian.

"I'm off, just thought I would let you know I received my parting gift from the boys, and I wouldn't want to embarrass them with long tearful goodbyes so if you would like to take care of that for me."

Ernshaw was momentarily surprised and went to stand before Sherlock continued.

"No, no, don't get up. Father has the car running, doesn't like to get his shoes dirty, you know. Bye, and thanks I learned a… well I learned a few things."

"Good bye Sherlock. I wish you all the best in the future."

"Come on Mr Ernshaw, lets not wax poetic now, it burns your tongue to say it and it burns my ears to hear it." Sherlock turned away from Ernshaw's shocked expression and walked out the wide doors of Eton College; Mozart's Symphony No. 25 triumphantly playing in his mind.

An oppressive silence hung heavy in the car as the Holmes' left Eton College and headed towards London. Sherlock's father had ignored his presence, except to cast the occasional disparaging look in his direction. Now seventy minutes had past without a word and as Paddy weaved among the busy London traffic Sherlock wondered when his father was going to break. He hoped that perhaps this would be one of those occasions when Mycroft Senior pretended his son didn't exist. As they pulled up in front of their Kensington home Sherlock was to find out that this wasn't the case. Mycroft Sr. turned to look at his son, his face dark with anger. "Do you know how much your little stunt cost me? NO! Don't speak! Everything that comes out of that mouth of yours is worthless! You have disgraced me once again Sherlock and do not think this will blow over!"

Sherlock listened with a blank expression, he had heard this speech before and he always found reruns boring.

"Things are going to change and mark my words you are in for a nasty surprise. It's time for a dose of reality. Making drugs! I don't know whom you think you are!" hissed Mycroft Sn.

"Who." said Sherlock quietly.

"What?"

"You said whom, when you should have said who, really fa…"

Sherlock's comment was cut short as his father's open palm slapped him across the face. A red mark immediately appeared on Sherlock's fair skin. A small cut on his cheekbone; made by Mycroft Senior's Oxford ring, began to bleed. All was silent in the car once more as both father and son stared at each other defiantly.

"Go and tell your mother what you've done. I have a meeting." Mycroft Snr. Spoke at last, his tone resonating with finality.

The voice of a lone violin, wailed and screeched throughout the Kensington house.

"The neighbors will be at the door soon, complaining about that racket." said Sue, making the final touches on the midday meal. The Holmes' servants were currently standing in the kitchen on the bottom floor, the only place where the din was lessened slightly by fireproofing materials in the ceiling and walls.

"Won't be the first time, and I dare say it won't be the last." replied Paul, grinning slightly.

"Well you would think his mother would do something about it! It'll be me who answers the door I bet."

"As if anyone could make that boy do anything he didn't want to. Besides it's his first day of public school tomorrow, that what you hear is a lament. Here pass me that tray, maybe he will put the instrument down long enough to eat."

"Lament? More like bloody drowning cats! Are you sure he hasn't got any up there, experimentin' on them?" asked Sue, her voice full of dislike and distrust.

Paul winked and picked up the finished tray of lunch, leaving Sue to attend to the doorbell that rang at that moment. As the kitchen door swung closed he thought he heard her cursing, but then, it was difficult to hear anything with the sound of the violin playing on. Paul had worked for the Holmes' for many years; his own kids were not much older than Sherlock and Mycroft. He knew that despite Sherlock's oddities and faults he wasn't dangerous. Sue wasn't the first to question Sherlock's behavior, she wasn't even the first to fear and loathe him. As Paul neared the source of the racket he reflected that the boy could be unnerving at times, but that's how he had always been. Of course it didn't help that Sherlock derived great pleasure from tormenting his mother's new recruits. Paul doubted whether Sue would last much longer. The music stopped abruptly as he stood before the boys door, balancing the tray, Paul knocked three times and then three more, before entering the room.

Although he couldn't see Sherlock when he looked around, he spoke to the room at large, knowing the young master would invariably hear him.

"Lunch Sherlock. Your mother has also instructed me to tell you that dinner will be at seven sharp and she expects you there looking presentable.."

Sherlock's room was a state. Clothes and books covered the floor, making it difficult for Paul to move amongst the sea of clutter to rest the tray on the unmade bed. The recently discarded violin lay nearby. The curtains and windows were closed but for one, and as Paul carefully walked over to see if Sherlock had made some daring escape, his attention was suddenly caught by a glass container on Sherlock's desk. This surface was the only one with any kind of order. The mahogany desktop was home to a complicated looking microscope, a set of scientific equipment and a vivarium. Paul only knew it was called that because Sherlock had insulted him over his use of the word terrarium, when he got the thing at age 12. Now Paul carefully peered into a container that caught his eye, it seemed to house an incredibly old and moldy piece of meat.

"I wouldn't touch that." said Sherlock calmly. Paul turned around but couldn't see where the voice had come from. Suddenly the biggest pile of clothes seemed to writhe and Sherlock burst forward scattering clothes and books everywhere.

"Hiding?" asked Paul as he moved to pick up some of the mess.

"I thought that horrid woman from the kitchen might have decided to pay me a visit again. She is frightful Paul. No chin, terrible cook and atrocious language…" Sherlock moved to inspect the tray on his bed.

"Yes well, we can't all be as blessed as you Sherlock." replied Paul, now opening curtains and windows to relieve the room of its mustiness.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his long time servant and began to eat his lunch.

"Perhaps a shower before dinner?" suggested Paul as he stood in the doorway before leaving.

"Perhaps." said Sherlock as he took another bite of his sandwich.

"Sherlock darling, you seem to have forgotten your personal hygiene amongst all that practicing you have been doing." Margot Holmes looked at her son from underneath a furrowed brow. Her narrowed eyes took in his appearance; with his dirty unkempt hair, wrinkled stale clothing and the small cut on his cheek, she was not pleased. Margot suspected that if she were to sit closer to him, she might also detect the sickly sour smell of adolescent body odor. Although he would never admit it, the boy was clearly sulking.

"Yes well mother, I have been distracted. I am composing a requiem," replied Sherlock, secretly taking immense joy in his mother's discomfort. He had discovered very early on in life that when it came to him, little made Margot Holmes lose her dignified, stony-faced composure. His father was easy enough to set off, of course. But his mother could ignore anything; anything but uncleanliness.

They sat at opposites sides of the large Chippendale table, separated by a mountain range of food served on silver platters. This was Margot's Sunday tradition, even with the boys away at school and Mycroft Senior off doing who knows what; she held firm to her belief that it does the silver good to breath once a week. The room was tastefully decorated and furnished, with various classical French influences; although without the gothic gaudiness preferred by so many.

The usual silence fell over the table and Sherlock and his mother continued their meal. This was how dinner always was in the Holmes household, of course when Mycroft was home he and Sherlock might tease and talk, but generally dining was accompanied by silence. Sherlock had been home a week, with only his mother, Paul and _Sue_ for company. In his opinion, hardly any company at all. Sherlock soon grew tired of his mother's disappointed looks, and bored of his experiments. Tormenting _Sue_ had given some enjoyment for a couple of days, however that too became tedious. In all honesty a part of him was looking forward to his first day at St James Academy. According to his extensive research, St. James' was a reputable place, for all it was a public school. It had performed quite well in the Ofsted scores and was known for its charity and community work. The later was hardly of interest, although Sherlock felt that it might make for an interesting mix of students within the cohort. His mother seemed to feel that Sherlock was soon to be lost to the lower classes, she had said as much the previous night at dinner, Mycroft Senior and Sherlock; both in attendance, had ignored her as stoically as they ignored each other. Sunday dinner with his mother past mostly without incident, that is until Sue came to collect the finished serving dish. Sherlock made a point to stare at her as she moved around the room, knowing how this had an unnerving affect on the women. Sue made the mistake of meeting his eye; to her own detriment. Spooked by the steely blue gaze of Sherlock Holmes she seemed to rush out the dining room door to the adjoining hall, almost immediately came an almighty clash and a very loud expletive. Sherlock continued his pudding as Margot rose gracefully and went to inspect the damage. She returned moments later, her cheeks slightly pink with emotion.

"Did she make a mess of the tapestry?" asked Sherlock as his mother sat down. Margot simply glanced at her son.

"No then, just the floor," ascertained Sherlock before sighing "You would think she would have the heart to at least let you fire her, rather than quitting at the first sight of you." Sherlock's mother cast him an annoyed look, she was used to his tricks by now, but it didn't make this situation any less vexing.

"As it would seem I am to see applicants tomorrow; much to my inconvenience, you will understand if I don't see you off before you leave in the morning." said Margot evenly as they finished the meal.

"Of course," replied Sherlock before adding, "I hope the next one knows how to make a decent pudding."

**Authors Notes:**

So what do you think? Next chapter we will meet an infatuated Molly Hooper and a naked John Watson.. whhaaat! Sherlock's first week of public school should be fun.**_  
Please read and review._**


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